Cheating stories

You sit on a deckchair on the shade side of the Tropic Princess II reading a crime mystery on your iPad. This side of the ship—starboard?—is relatively unpopulated, naturally, since the great bulk of the passengers are swimming, sunning themselves, drinking and socializing on the sun side as the TP II (TP l sank a few years back) slices through calm gulf waters toward an ever-retreating horizon and, ultimately, Cozumel.

You hate cruises. You hate sharing one finite space with thousands of strangers. You hate the forced conviviality. You hate the sun. You hate the food. At least at mealtime you can get drunk, however. That eases the pain of having to sit at a round table with a group of people who, with two exceptions, you don't know and don't care to know.

"Is that your third glass of wine already?" Karla says reprovingly.

Who cares?

You look over to your right, and down, below white tablecloth's fringe, at your friend Trey's left hand on your wife Karla's bare right tanned thigh.

Why am I even here? you ask yourself. Why did they invite me? Drag me along? It's not like the two lovers haven't traveled together before. A weekend trip here. A three-day business trip there. This is a weeklong cruise out of country, but still. You would have been more than content to drive the lovebirds to the terminal, and then pick them up seven days later. How was your trip? Did they include you out of a sense of pity? Or guilt? You thought they were long past that. They sometimes fuck right under your nose—in the upstairs master bedroom while you're in the house. Your house. Your fucking master bedroom! You thought they'd long ago lost whatever inhibitions they may at one time have had.

"I'm fucking your beautiful wife," Trey one day informed you, about a year ago.

"She says you just haven't been doing it for her in the bedroom, old man. For a long time now."

"Don't call me old man."

"It's just an expression, man."

"You're not British, Trey. And Victoria isn't the Queen."

"At any rate, we're going to keep seeing each other."

"Seeing?"

"I wanted you to know."

"Thanks for the update."

"And I may take her out from time to time. You know, on dates."

"Dates?"

"With your blessing, of course. Like that time we went to the movies together?"

"I'm not the Pope, Trey."

"So you're OK with everything? Everything's cool?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, old—I mean..."

And then some old bag sitting to Trey's right at the meal table leans over and asks him and Karla, after noting the chunk of diamond on her ring finger and the exploring hand on her thigh: "How long have you two been married?"

"Oh, we're not married," Trey replies. "They're married."

And the woman, once again noting the affectionate hand, pulls back aghast. What kind of threesome is this?

"Another chardonnay!" you call out to the waiter.

So, to repeat: Is the reason they brought me along to further humiliate me? Or is it out of pity? Guilt?

Trey: "Should we bring hubby on the cruise?"

Karla: "Why?" (As in: "In God's name why?")

Trey shrugs: "I don't know. As a gesture?"

"I'll give him a gesture."

"We go on movie dates together. Sometimes. The three of us. And ballgames."

"That's a three-hour deal. This is a week-long cruise."

"We can still fuck."

"I know we can fuck."

"We'll be in our suite and he'll be in his."

"Yeah, listening through the wall and jerking off."

"Is that what he does? While we're...?"

"I've seen the wads of tissues in the waste basket in the guest bedroom where he sleeps. Believe me."

"Did I need to know this?"

"You asked why."

"Why what?" (Trey is not the sharpest knife in the drawer.)

"Why I don't want him on the cruise with us!"

"Oh. He could pay for the whole thing."

"What thing?"

"The cruise. The two suites. If we invited him."

"Oh."

This mystery you're reading is a real page-turner. But you're racing through it. You could read it in one sitting. It's about a "retired" lawyer in New Jersey who rescues dogs and takes on improbable clients. You love dogs. The plot gets a little far-fetched (no pun intended), but...

You turn off your iPad and rise. You stretch. The calm, deep-blue Gulf water, in ship's imposing shadow, is beautiful, you have to admit. You head back to your cabin. A nap—not that you need one—before dinner would be nice. You can already taste that unending flow of buttery chardonnay. The wine list is primo. Another thing you have to admit...

Your cabin number is 619. Theirs is the adjacent one: 617. (This fucking ship is six stories tall above deck!) You head to the bed and, before stretching out, put your ear to the thin, paneled wall. If they're in there they're not fucking. No animal grunts and groans. Or cries. Somewhat deflated, you start to lie down when you hear a voice. Trey's. It's barely audible without your ear to the wall...

"He cums in your panties?"

Karla, in full song: "I told you about that."

"No you didn't."

"About how he jerks off in my panties while we're fucking?"

"Must've been some other lover of yours."

"Fresh! No, he listens through the wall or outside the door and jerks off while we do it."

"I didn't know that! He gets off on it?"

"Of course he gets off on it! What did you think?"

"I just assumed...Where does he get the panties from?"

"Well...he used to steal them. From my drawer. Or the dirty clothes. Then I caught on to him and we came to an understanding."

"What kind of understanding?"

"That I'd buy panties especially for him—for his use I mean—so he wouldn't have to steal mine anymore. And ruin them by the way. So we buy them together now, online, and then I wear them once, usually after you cum in me..."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you know how I almost always pull a pair of panties on as soon as we've finished?"

"Not really."

"No, because you run off to the shower...Clean freak!"

"I'm not a clean freak! I'm just..."

"A clean freak. You just showered, like, ten minutes ago!"

"I like to be fresh for you, darling."

"Fresh my ass!"

"Ow!"

"So anyway, I toss the panty in the dirty clothes and the next morning he retrieves it. Or, sometimes, if you don't spend the night, I just go down to his room while the crotch is still sopping wet and toss it into his bed. 'Here!' I say. 'Knock yourself out.'"

"Sopping wet with my...cum?"

"No, I pee in them. Of course with your cum!"

"Wow. That's kinda...disgusting. I never thought about him wanting to, you know, taste my cum before. That's queer as hell."

"He's asked me a thousand times to let him come in the room immediately after we finish so he can lick the cum out of me."

"Gross!"

"Your cum, I mean. But I tell him that's our...private time. On the other hand, you're in the shower by then so..."

"You'd let him do that?"

"I don't know. It's up to you."

"Long as I'm not in the room, as you say."

"I just said so. You're in the shower."

"Right."

"I'd have to hold my legs up in the air. You know, so not so much of it dripped out of me. Fortunately you're a big cummer."

"Am I?"

"Big cummer, big cock—well, pretty big—nice balls."

"I love to fuck you, darling. You drive me wild!"

"Stop it! We'd have to have a signal."

"A signal?"

"When we were finished, you and me. When he could come in."

"Walkie-talkies."

"I could just shout."

"I like the idea of walkie-talkies. I have a pair at home."

"Walkie what? You're weird."

"I'm weird? What about your limp-dick husband?"

"He's beyond weird."

(Laughter)

"What if you're on your hands and knees? Your favorite position."

"That would be tougher. Holding it in. I could use my hand. But most of it would drip out by the time I..."

"No I mean when I fuck you up the ass."

"Oh. Good point. There's no drip then. It's all inside me."

"He could eat your ass out. I could watch."

"He loves to eat my ass."

"He does? I could fuck you until you orgasm then roll you over and finish up your ass."

"You could, yes. You'd like to watch?"

"The cum shot. Want it right now?"

"Again? You're incorrigible."

"Roll over, baby."

OH!

"What was that?"

The two naked lovers sitting up in bed now, staring at a thin paneled wall on which a replica painting of an 18th century schooner hangs.

"That son of a bitch."

"He was listening to us?"

"The whole time, I bet."

"Pervert!"

"Him and his goddamn panties! Mine I mean!"

That night at dinner you once again have a nice white wine buzz on. Karla and Trey are once again seated to your right. On your left two guys who are obviously "partners." The nearer one about your age; the other younger. Good-looking. The nearer one leans over:

"What's your deal?"

"My deal?"

Karla and Trey involved in an animated, leaning conversation with a pair of strangers—male and female—to their right. They're oblivious.

"Are you traveling alone?"

"No, I'm with...them," you reply, gesturing right.

"Oh. Friend?"

"Husband."

"Oh!" eyebrows rising this time. "Interesting."

"What about you? Two?"

"Um. We're just two horny guys on a cruise. You know. He's a top," head tilting left. "And I'm versatile. Our bottom crapped out on us. You wouldn't know anybody who'd like to...?"

"Waiter!"You sit on a deckchair on the shade side of the Tropic Princess II reading a crime mystery on your iPad. This side of the ship—starboard?—is relatively unpopulated, naturally, since the great bulk of the passengers are swimming, sunning themselves, drinking and socializing on the sun side as the TP II (TP l sank a few years back) slices through calm gulf waters toward an ever-retreating horizon and, ultimately, Cozumel.

You hate cruises. You hate sharing one finite space with thousands of strangers. You hate the forced conviviality. You hate the sun. You hate the food. At least at mealtime you can get drunk, however. That eases the pain of having to sit at a round table with a group of people who, with two exceptions, you don't know and don't care to know.

"Is that your third glass of wine already?" Karla says reprovingly.

Who cares?

You look over to your right, and down, below white tablecloth's fringe, at your friend Trey's left hand on your wife Karla's bare right tanned thigh.

Why am I even here? you ask yourself. Why did they invite me? Drag me along? It's not like the two lovers haven't traveled together before. A weekend trip here. A three-day business trip there. This is a weeklong cruise out of country, but still. You would have been more than content to drive the lovebirds to the terminal, and then pick them up seven days later. How was your trip? Did they include you out of a sense of pity? Or guilt? You thought they were long past that. They sometimes fuck right under your nose—in the upstairs master bedroom while you're in the house. Your house. Your fucking master bedroom! You thought they'd long ago lost whatever inhibitions they may at one time have had.

"I'm fucking your beautiful wife," Trey one day informed you, about a year ago.

"She says you just haven't been doing it for her in the bedroom, old man. For a long time now."

"Don't call me old man."

"It's just an expression, man."

"You're not British, Trey. And Victoria isn't the Queen."

"At any rate, we're going to keep seeing each other."

"Seeing?"

"I wanted you to know."

"Thanks for the update."

"And I may take her out from time to time. You know, on dates."

"Dates?"

"With your blessing, of course. Like that time we went to the movies together?"

"I'm not the Pope, Trey."

"So you're OK with everything? Everything's cool?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, old—I mean..."

And then some old bag sitting to Trey's right at the meal table leans over and asks him and Karla, after noting the chunk of diamond on her ring finger and the exploring hand on her thigh: "How long have you two been married?"

"Oh, we're not married," Trey replies. "They're married."

And the woman, once again noting the affectionate hand, pulls back aghast. What kind of threesome is this?

"Another chardonnay!" you call out to the waiter.

So, to repeat: Is the reason they brought me along to further humiliate me? Or is it out of pity? Guilt?

Trey: "Should we bring hubby on the cruise?"

Karla: "Why?" (As in: "In God's name why?")

Trey shrugs: "I don't know. As a gesture?"

"I'll give him a gesture."

"We go on movie dates together. Sometimes. The three of us. And ballgames."

"That's a three-hour deal. This is a week-long cruise."

"We can still fuck."

"I know we can fuck."

"We'll be in our suite and he'll be in his."

"Yeah, listening through the wall and jerking off."

"Is that what he does? While we're...?"

"I've seen the wads of tissues in the waste basket in the guest bedroom where he sleeps. Believe me."

"Did I need to know this?"

"You asked why."

"Why what?" (Trey is not the sharpest knife in the drawer.)

"Why I don't want him on the cruise with us!"

"Oh. He could pay for the whole thing."

"What thing?"

"The cruise. The two suites. If we invited him."

"Oh."

This mystery you're reading is a real page-turner. But you're racing through it. You could read it in one sitting. It's about a "retired" lawyer in New Jersey who rescues dogs and takes on improbable clients. You love dogs. The plot gets a little far-fetched (no pun intended), but...

You turn off your iPad and rise. You stretch. The calm, deep-blue Gulf water, in ship's imposing shadow, is beautiful, you have to admit. You head back to your cabin. A nap—not that you need one—before dinner would be nice. You can already taste that unending flow of buttery chardonnay. The wine list is primo. Another thing you have to admit...

Your cabin number is 619. Theirs is the adjacent one: 617. (This fucking ship is six stories tall above deck!) You head to the bed and, before stretching out, put your ear to the thin, paneled wall. If they're in there they're not fucking. No animal grunts and groans. Or cries. Somewhat deflated, you start to lie down when you hear a voice. Trey's. It's barely audible without your ear to the wall...

"He cums in your panties?"

Karla, in full song: "I told you about that."

"No you didn't."

"About how he jerks off in my panties while we're fucking?"

"Must've been some other lover of yours."

"Fresh! No, he listens through the wall or outside the door and jerks off while we do it."

"I didn't know that! He gets off on it?"

"Of course he gets off on it! What did you think?"

"I just assumed...Where does he get the panties from?"

"Well...he used to steal them. From my drawer. Or the dirty clothes. Then I caught on to him and we came to an understanding."

"What kind of understanding?"

"That I'd buy panties especially for him—for his use I mean—so he wouldn't have to steal mine anymore. And ruin them by the way. So we buy them together now, online, and then I wear them once, usually after you cum in me..."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you know how I almost always pull a pair of panties on as soon as we've finished?"

"Not really."

"No, because you run off to the shower...Clean freak!"

"I'm not a clean freak! I'm just..."

"A clean freak. You just showered, like, ten minutes ago!"

"I like to be fresh for you, darling."

"Fresh my ass!"

"Ow!"

"So anyway, I toss the panty in the dirty clothes and the next morning he retrieves it. Or, sometimes, if you don't spend the night, I just go down to his room while the crotch is still sopping wet and toss it into his bed. 'Here!' I say. 'Knock yourself out.'"

"Sopping wet with my...cum?"

"No, I pee in them. Of course with your cum!"

"Wow. That's kinda...disgusting. I never thought about him wanting to, you know, taste my cum before. That's queer as hell."

"He's asked me a thousand times to let him come in the room immediately after we finish so he can lick the cum out of me."

"Gross!"

"Your cum, I mean. But I tell him that's our...private time. On the other hand, you're in the shower by then so..."

"You'd let him do that?"

"I don't know. It's up to you."

"Long as I'm not in the room, as you say."

"I just said so. You're in the shower."

"Right."

"I'd have to hold my legs up in the air. You know, so not so much of it dripped out of me. Fortunately you're a big cummer."

"Am I?"

"Big cummer, big cock—well, pretty big—nice balls."

"I love to fuck you, darling. You drive me wild!"

"Stop it! We'd have to have a signal."

"A signal?"

"When we were finished, you and me. When he could come in."

"Walkie-talkies."

"I could just shout."

"I like the idea of walkie-talkies. I have a pair at home."

"Walkie what? You're weird."

"I'm weird? What about your limp-dick husband?"

"He's beyond weird."

(Laughter)

"What if you're on your hands and knees? Your favorite position."

"That would be tougher. Holding it in. I could use my hand. But most of it would drip out by the time I..."

"No I mean when I fuck you up the ass."

"Oh. Good point. There's no drip then. It's all inside me."

"He could eat your ass out. I could watch."

"He loves to eat my ass."

"He does? I could fuck you until you orgasm then roll you over and finish up your ass."

"You could, yes. You'd like to watch?"

"The cum shot. Want it right now?"

"Again? You're incorrigible."

"Roll over, baby."

OH!

"What was that?"

The two naked lovers sitting up in bed now, staring at a thin paneled wall on which a replica painting of an 18th century schooner hangs.

"That son of a bitch."

"He was listening to us?"

"The whole time, I bet."

"Pervert!"

"Him and his goddamn panties! Mine I mean!"

That night at dinner you once again have a nice white wine buzz on. Karla and Trey are once again seated to your right. On your left two guys who are obviously "partners." The nearer one about your age; the other younger. Good-looking. The nearer one leans over:

"What's your deal?"

"My deal?"

Karla and Trey involved in an animated, leaning conversation with a pair of strangers—male and female—to their right. They're oblivious.

"Are you traveling alone?"

"No, I'm with...them," you reply, gesturing right.

"Oh. Friend?"

"Husband."

"Oh!" eyebrows rising this time. "Interesting."

"What about you? Two?"

"Um. We're just two horny guys on a cruise. You know. He's a top," head tilting left. "And I'm versatile. Our bottom crapped out on us. You wouldn't know anybody who'd like to...?"